


and I want you to know, I am my hair

by InkBlotAngel



Series: time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel
Genre: Everyone's Worried About May, Gen, Jemma Simmons Needs a Hug, Melinda May's Perfect Hair, Season/Series 07, Time Travel, Women of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkBlotAngel/pseuds/InkBlotAngel
Summary: For all the upgrades Jemma made to the Zephyr, there was one feature she completely missed out on: hairstyling.The ladies of S.H.I.E.L.D. figure out their hair game as they travel through time, because haven’t we all wondered how they’ve done it so far?
Relationships: Jemma Simmons & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Melinda May & Jemma Simmons, Yo Yo Rodriguez & Skye | Daisy Johnson
Series: time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790437
Comments: 15
Kudos: 55





	and I want you to know, I am my hair

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up until 7x03. 
> 
> Title from _Hair_ by Lady Gaga.

“I am _not_ doing a poodle cut,” Daisy protests, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Need I remind everyone I already had to let go of the purple?”

She shoots another disapproving look at the screen where Deke had pulled up a photo of the hairstyle of offense. The lab—so new, yet familiar all the same, Daisy thinks—was in a state of complete disarray, with era-appropriate clothes, vintage currency, and old-fashioned weapons strewn around a little too haphazardly than Jemma was comfortable with.

Jemma, _at least_ , was ready for the 1950s, though she had to give it to Deke for doing a good job sourcing their costumes last time (not bad for someone who’s been thrown a good 140 years into the past): Mack was the only one already fully dressed, looking quite dashing in mustard; Daisy was missing her shoes, the LMD Coulson his tie, and Deke his suspenders. Herself and Yo-Yo were still in their Prohibition-era outfits, while May’s decidedly-modern leather jacket and boots looked a little out of place.

 _May_. Jemma casts a furtive glance at her fellow agent, and to her surprise, feels an immediate rush of relief and love flood overwhelm her. Even when they were at Koenig’s speakeasy, she’d been plagued with worry, wondering about side effects she may not have factored in. 

But the way May was examining her costume with the barest hint of interest—the first actual expression she had ever seen on the other woman since she left the chamber—makes Jemma a little proud of her attention to detail. She knew May loved the history of the Women Airforce Service Pilots, was inspired to become a pilot herself knowing that Asian women served in that capacity during the Second World War. 

Her little tribute seems to be appreciated, and she makes a promise to express her gratitude, _again_ , to a certain Sara Lance for letting her hop aboard the Waverider and borrow Gideon’s costume printer.

Off to one corner, Yo-Yo is cursing softly in Spanish while trying to dismantle her 1930’s hairstyle. “No more hairspray,” she grumbles, wincing as her brush caught onto yet another invisible hairpin, tugging at her hair. The strands were stiff, nearly as hard as the warm wood of her hairbrush, and she takes a moment to marvel at how she can feel with her hands once more—at least she had one thing going well for her, Yo-Yo thinks bitterly, remembering her inability to stop the bottle from falling on the ground, to get Enoch in time to the Zephyr…

“Well, we have to blend in,” Jemma interrupts Yo-Yo’s train of thought, her exasperation making her accent even more pronounced. “Daisy, if you don’t want to do a poodle cut, then find something else to do with your hair.” Her own locks were still molded into a bob, and with a few adjustments and a change of hair accessory, she can make it work for this period—no way was she was going to do it all over again, not after how long it took the first time around. 

For all the upgrades Jemma made to the Zephyr, there was one feature she completely missed out on: hairstyling.

It didn’t help that Enoch, who at least had the foresight to download the hairstyling skill pack on himself, was inconveniently left behind twenty years in the past. He took care of everyone’s hair for the 1931 mission; now they were left to their own devices.

Jemma was beginning to think this was going to be as disastrous as the Chronicoms winning.

Eventually, Daisy settles on some retro curls and begins the laborious process of removing all the pins from her ‘30s curly bob, Deke assisting her while Mack heads off to consult with the LMD Coulson about their weapons—at least they didn’t have to worry about hair. Yo-Yo, having finally regained control over her hair, shakes out her loose curls in relief and combs them with her fingers, grinning at the sensation.

It turns out Deke is completely useless at a curling wand, and as is Daisy, so Jemma sends him off and takes his place. She’s no expert hairstylist herself and only knows how to do her own hair, but how hard can it be to work on someone else, right? She’s wielded more complex contraptions before, it should be easy.

It was not easy.

“Sit still!” she reprimands her friend, looping a lock of honey-blond hair around the hot tool with a confidence she did not feel. Daisy shifts in her seat once more before valiantly attempting to relax, as much as she could anyway when she was very much worried Jemma was going to burn her ear off at some point. 

Out of all the women in the room, she’s the one who has been changing her hair drastically over the years—a fringe, cutting it off just above her shoulders, dying it black, going blonde, adding purple highlights… Trust was always hard to come by, and early on in life she’s taught herself not to get overly attached to things, and that included her hair. Nothing was ever constant, not until she became a part of this team. For once, Daisy finally understood the truest essence of a home, and somehow, she knew part of that included a sister who helped fix her hair for her. It was kind of nice to let someone she trusted take the reins for her over something she usually kept in control—if she could just stop panicking about having a scalding object too close for comfort, that is.

Jemma holds the wand in place, her finger lightly tapping the hair wrapped around it to monitor the heat. After a few seconds, she releases, watching the curl as it tumbles loose. 

_Oh._

Well, it certainly _was_ curled, though she was expecting it to fall down, not stick upwards awkwardly. 

This is going to take a while.

Yo-Yo, who had decided on a sleek ponytail from the pegs Deke came up (minimal hairspray required), was giving herself a blowout, the dryer loud and distracting in the room. Her movements look strange, as if she knew exactly what to do, just not with her new arms yet. 

Feeling Daisy’s questioning eyes at her, Yo-Yo glances at her with a smile, “I had super frizzy hair growing up and was teased for it,” she explains, moving on to her last section. “So I learned how to blow dry it straight at an early age, blend in with the rest of the kids.”

The memory comes rushing back, and for a brief moment, her expression turns wistful. Now years older, Yo-Yo’s grown to embrace her natural texture and only style her hair for herself—she could only wish her younger self had the same conviction but knew it came with age. 

A smaller voice in her head tells her she needs a little more confidence in herself these days, especially where her Inhuman abilities are concerned.

While Jemma continues to work on her hair, Daisy watches in fascination as Yo-Yo ties her hair up in a ponytail, deliberately leaving behind two sections: One was used to wrap around the elastic and hide it from view, while the other was swept in a deep side part that completed the look. She puts the last pin in place with a flourish and admires her handiwork in the mirror Deke had helpfully set up for the ladies.

“Looks good,” Jemma hums in approval, smiling as Yo-Yo approached them with a wordless offer to help. Together they take on Daisy’s long hair, working methodically, all pins and awkward fingers (real and synthetic alike), and the air clouds over with the unmistakable smell of hairspray and sage advice from Yo-Yo, until all the curls are set and Daisy finally looks ready—perfect, even.

The three of them were cleaning up after themselves when May, who had disappeared while they were getting ready, walked back into the lab. Her modern-day ensemble was now a stark contrast to her old-fashioned coiffure: The top of her head was styled flat against her head, before flaring out into precise ink-black finger waves that fell past her shoulders. 

For a moment, everyone was stunned into silence.

“Wow!” Daisy breathes out, the first to react.

Yo-Yo lets out an appreciative whistle, “Damn, Melinda, you did that yourself?”

“Yeah,” she answers nonchalantly, unfazed at the impressed looks she was getting. “Undercover elective at the Academy.”

“Clearly should have signed up for _that_ class,” Jemma mutters to herself, rolling her eyes.

Now that she really thought about it, it makes so much sense: May was always all about long, flowing silky hair, with curls that always seemed to fall back effortlessly in place even after a fight. She had always attributed the pilot’s enviable crowning glory to her Asian genes, but she realizes now that it takes some effort. May likely carves out time in the mornings to take care of her hair.

Jemma softens a little, smiling at the elder agent sheepishly. “You know we could’ve used your help, Agent May.”

May regards the scientist with a head tilt. “You didn’t ask,” she replies, her tone as expressionless as the rest of her demeanor, and everyone looked slightly chastened, though the worry Jemma already feels about her returns in full force, now a nagging feeling in her gut.

She watches helplessly as May drifts back towards her vintage pilot costume, her fingertips brushing over the buttery-soft leather. “Thought I’d get ready ahead of time in case you need to send in The Cavalry.”

At this, Jemma, Daisy, and Yo-Yo exchange alarmed looks. The unspoken conversation could be heard loud as day:

_Did she just—?_

_—call_ herself _The Cavalry?_

_But she hates that name!_

Jemma could feel Daisy and Yo-Yo’s eyes on her, begging for answers about the woman currently flitting through the room and taking stock of the weapons they had at their disposal. She closes her eyes, feeling a weight settle on world-weary shoulders: Chronicoms, watching everyone die at the Lighthouse, being away from her team for an inconsiderable amount of time, missing Fitz so much it overwhelms her with an ache, putting the plan together, upgrading the Zephyr, perfecting the LMD Coulson and Yo-Yo’s new arms, now May…

Something inside her threatens to break apart and makes her want to pull her hair out, but she remembers the music box and calms herself down—repressing is really not a healthy coping mechanism, she knows, but at the moment with so much at stake, it’s a tried and tested method she can rely on.

A deep sigh, and Jemma moves with newfound resolve towards the mirror, her fingers starting to smooth out curls that were out of place. 

First, she was going to be Peggy Carter for an afternoon. Then—if she somehow pulls it off and helps the team catch the Chronicoms, she promises herself to look after May.

**END.**


End file.
